


Quantum (Sher)Locked

by afghanistanorgallifrey (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Donna is Donna, Gen, John doesn't get it, Mystery, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Spoilers, Tenth Doctor Era, Timey-Wimey, so no more tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/afghanistanorgallifrey
Summary: When Sherlock and John are called to a crime scene, they expect a body, not a letter in Sherlock's writing that he hasn't written yet...





	Quantum (Sher)Locked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheColdEastWind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheColdEastWind/gifts).



> My first true Doctor Who/Sherlock crossover. Big thanks to [whitehart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whitehart/pseuds/whitehart) for helping me with the timey-wimey elements of this - I swear you're part timelord!
> 
> A comment by a friend about their favourite episode of Doctor Who inspired this story. Hopefully it lives up to the inspiration.

 “John!” Sherlock’s voice echoed up the stairs, and John started. He was tying his shoes anyway, so it only took him another few seconds to grab his wallet and phone before he clattered down from his bedroom. From the brief smile Sherlock threw his way, he was pleased his blogger had correctly interpreted his message as, “Get down here in five seconds if you want in on the case that Lestrade just called me about.” John barely broke stride as he plucked his coat from the hook, following Sherlock as he bounded down the stairs to street level. The glee he exuded at the prospect of a case was particularly evident today – must be at least an 8, possibly with a locked room or mysterious substance. At least he’ll be in a good mood for a bit, John thought to himself.

The cab stopped outside the cordoned off cul-de-sac, and John registered the unusual number of police cars that seemed to be present. He didn’t bother mentioning it, knowing that Sherlock would have _observed_ and probably had a better idea of why they were there than he did. A perfunctory smile at Donovan, scowling at whatever it was that Sherlock had muttered in her direction as he passed, and they made their way under the police tape and into the house.

“Ah, Sherlock.” Lestrade greeted them. “John.” The two men nodded at each other.

“Where’s the body?” Sherlock asked, impatient at even this short social exchange.

Lestrade’s face twisted in a grimace. “Upstairs, but it’s not the body that we need you here for, Sherlock.” That got a response, John noted. The twitch of an eyebrow was the equivalent of a lesser mortal dropping to the floor in astonishment.

A dozen forensic techs were already in the room, and Lestrade forestalled Sherlock’s protests by saying, “Body was not found in here, Sherlock. We were clearing the floor when we found this.” The group parted, allowing Sherlock and John to move closer. They had been clustered around a table, bare but for a single envelope. It wasn’t the envelope that made John stop in his tracks; nor was it the name on the front; _Sherlock Holmes_. It was the distinctive scrawl. He knew that scrawl.

“Sherlock?” he asked, experience telling him not to ask anything or make any observations in front of the Yarders.

“Mmmm.” Sherlock replied absently, examining the envelope without touching it.

John could see the detective's mind working and knew there was no point to asking anything until Sherlock was ready. He pulled Lestrade aside. “What the hell is going on?” He hissed, as they observed the techs watching Sherlock. ‘Wary’ was the best description he could come up with; ‘scared’ and ‘suspicious’ also seemed to fit their demeanour.

“Dunno.” Lestrade replied. He was watching Sherlock too, but ‘worried’ was a better description, and John was grateful for his loyalty to Sherlock.

“What about the body, then?” John asked. There was no evidence of it in here, from what he could see.

“Found on the top floor. As I said, we were just checking the rooms, making sure the rest of the building was secure when one of the boys found it. The murder itself is straightforward; we only called Sherlock in for this.”

They both looked back over, where Sherlock was squabbling with Anderson about whether he was allowed to take the envelope with him or not. John was about to step in, worried it would come to blows, when Lestrade interceded. “Let him take it, Anderson.” As the tech was about to protest, Lestrade added, “It’s addressed to him and he knows better than to destroy it, though it’s probably not linked to the murder.” He turned and raised eyebrows at Sherlock, asking in a meaningful tone, “You do know that, right? Don’t destroy it, we might want another look at that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, using his gloved hand to drop the envelope into an evidence bag. He swept out of the room without another word.

“Thanks, Greg.” John told him, hurrying to catch up before Sherlock took off without him.

+++

As soon as they returned to Baker Street, John followed Sherlock into the kitchen, where he’d made a space to work. With a click, the examination light bathed the table with bright white light. The envelope sat in its bag, looking innocuous. They stared at it for a long moment.

“That’s your handwriting.” John blurted finally, feeling foolish at stating the obvious but unable to keep it in any longer.

“And yet, I did not write this.” Sherlock answered him. His voice was interested but guarded. He drew on nitrile gloves and brought the envelope up to his face, smelling the stationery, looking closely at the character of the letters.

“This stationery is consistent with that provided at the Diogenes Club. 80% cotton rag, oatmeal colour, Mycroft uses it often. The writer has used a steel nibbed fountain pen. The lifts and starts are inconsistent, as is the pressure, indicating either haste in writing or unfamiliarity with this type of pen." He looked at John. “I learned to write with a fountain pen, therefore I must have been in a hurry when I wrote this.”

John blinked. “Must have been – Sherlock, how could you have written this? You just told me that you didn’t write this.”

“I have no recollection of doing so, John. However the evidence suggests I have done so.” He used a kitchen knife to slice open the envelope, drawing out a single sheet of paper. When he unfolded it, John noted the Diogenes Club watermark – Sherlock had been right. Not that John had doubted him, but seeing the evidence was always a comfort. He peered over at the note which Sherlock had laid flat on the table.

 

_Sherlock,_

_This will make sense once you’re in the box. Keep it with you at all times._

_When you get there, lock the door. Might need to jiggle the lock, it gets sticky._

_Don’t do that, you might break something._

_Yes, it is._

_No, you can’t._

_Concentrate on crimson – eleven – delight – petrichor._

_Don’t put your hand in him, it’s rude._

_Yes, I know._

_Answer him honestly. BE POLITE._

_It doesn’t._

_Hold on._

 

John stared blankly at the paper – he had no idea what any of it meant. What box? It looked like one half of a conversation, like someone was answering unseen questions …

When he looked up, he could see that Sherlock was doing The Face. The ‘We all know what’s going on here’ Face that he only ever seemed to use when John had no idea what was going on. Restraining his reflex to punch said Face, John asked, “Well?” If there was one thing Sherlock loved to do it was show off how much smarter he was than everybody else, and John was happy enough to be the representative idiot.

“Not enough data.” Sherlock said shortly, still reading through the note. Abruptly he picked it up, folded it carefully and placed both the letter and envelope in his pocket. “I need to go to my mind palace."

Hardly surprising, thought John, who had mouthed the last three words along with him. Resigned to waiting, John turned on the kettle. Might as well have a cuppa to pass the time.

+++

Two days later, John wondered if his assumption that Sherlock would be happier with a case on had jinxed them. With no further clues forthcoming, and clearly no more data available in his mind palace, he was more unbearable than usual. Violin at all hours of the day and night, storming around with his dressing gown streaming behind him. John practically had to sit on him earlier to make sure he ate and drank something. In the end he’d curled up in his chair, arms and legs tucked away as John read bits out of the newspaper in an effort to interest him.

“Mmm, more people going missing, that’s five this week.” John remarked, wondering if Lestrade had the pull to find the case files for Sherlock. He turned the page, idly reading the headline, “‘City of Angels: Art or Nuisance?’  Oh, that’s all the angel statues appearing across the city. Worth a look around, what do you think?”

Sherlock grunted moodily, “Hardly the mark of a cold east wind, John.”

John kept reading for a moment, until Sherlock’s words registered, stirring an old memory. He turned back, looking again at the headline. _Angels._

“What did you say, Sherlock?” He asked, heart beating faster as Sherlock repeated himself. John swallowed hard, hands shaking so hard he dropped the paper.

“ _Cold East Wind.”_ John whispered. His eyes were wide and he knew he was staring at Sherlock. The detective, for all his self-involvement finally noticed something was amiss.

“John?” He asked. When John didn’t – couldn’t – answer, Sherlock unwrapped himself and sat forward on his seat. “John?”

John cleared his throat, shaking his head to clear it before he spoke. “Have you ever read The Gallifreyan Treatise on Anatomy?” Sherlock shook his head ‘no’. John nodded. “I had this one Professor, Kingbourne, he was obsessed with it, all because of one page. It’s been superseded of course, a good fifty years old by now, but every student who had him had to buy a copy and he’d check that you did. Then every week he’d make us turn to page two hundred and seventeen and recite this one passage.” John cleared his throat again. The passage came to him, burned onto his memory for its strangeness as much as the repetition. “When he talks of the Cold East Wind and the Angels, tell William S.S.H. to find the key hidden in Baker Street.”

John watched Sherlock’s face change as he listened.

“Show me.” Sherlock said hoarsely. John rose and found the book, opening to the page and handing it over. Sherlock ran his fingers over the text, a text box inserted in the middle of a paragraph about muscles controlling the blinking reflex. His lips moved as he read it, then he flipped to the front of the book, looking at the manufacturer’s details. His eyebrows rose. “First printed London, by Circular Publishers, 1962.” He looked up at John. “You said it’s obscure.” John nodded. “According to this, it’s been reprinted almost every year since 1962.” John’s face obviously showed his confusion, because Sherlock went on, “Highly unlikely that such an obscure and superseded textbook would continue to be printed.”

“Are you William S.S.H., then?” John asked hesitantly.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” Sherlock admitted. His fingers ran over the printing details, and John could almost hear his brain working as he tried to assimilate this new information. “The key hidden in Baker Street.” He repeated, then jumped up, pacing and tapping the tome against his head as he thought out loud. “I think we can assume this message is intended for me – the universe is rarely lazy enough for one coincidence, let alone two.” He stopped suddenly, and bounded down the stairs, John scrambling to catch up. By the time he’d made it into Mrs. Hudson kitchen, she and Sherlock were halfway through a conversation.

“No no, I didn’t buy the building until 1974,” she protested. “The place was falling down, a disaster.” She said. “I got it for a steal, really.” She looked very pleased with herself for a moment, before pulling herself back to answer Sherlock’s question. “No plaster or anything. The only thing that was there then was the fireplace. I practically built the rest of the… Sherlock!” She called after him. John shot her an apologetic look before following him again, back up into their flat, where Sherlock was examining the fireplace.

“…if we make that assumption, this is the only logical place.” Sherlock was saying, and a wave of irritation washed over John.

“I didn’t hear the first part of your conversation.” John told him as he lay on the floor, looking up into the chimney.

“I said,” Sherlock repeated, now standing and running his hands over the bricks inside the flue, “If the key is a physical object, and it was hidden at the same time as the message was originally sent, this must be the only place it could still be.”

John nodded, though there was a whole side to this he didn’t really understand. “Hang on, so someone in 196-whatever is sending you a message?” Sherlock nodded, still looking closely at the brickwork. His hands were filthy as they ran over the bricks. “But why do it in such a roundabout way? And,” John added as he realised, “how the hell could they know we would have that conversation? Or that you’d live in Baker Street? Or that I’d even meet you in the first place? How–” but his growing list of questions was cut off by Sherlock’s triumphant yell. He scrambled out of the fireplace, a blackened hand holding his prize – a brick.

“False brick. It appears to be hollow.” He explained. John moved closer so they could both see inside the brick. A piece of cloth was jammed into the void. Sherlock pulled on it and it came loose, unfolding and releasing…

“A key.” John said, picking it up from the floor. It was plain silver. He turned it over – no markings, just an average door key.

“It’s blank, Sherlock.” John said in surprise. He ran his finger over the smooth edge of the key shaft.

“And another note.” Sherlock added. The scrap of paper matched the stationery from the Diogenes Club; this one had a string of numbers. Sherlock’s eyes gleamed as he passed it to John, before turning his attention to the key.

“This is not a 1960’s key, John.” Sherlock said, taking if from John and examining it carefully. “It’s been made using a modern machine.” His eyes were puzzled and excited, that combination which, to John, typified Sherlock.

“So what now?” John asked. Sherlock pocketed the key, tossed the brick into the fireplace and examined the fabric. It held no interest, and it joined the brick as he washed his hands of the ash they’d collected.

“A nonsensical note written by me which I did not write, a message sent to me through you via a textbook written before either of us were born, a blank key hidden in a building fifty years before I moved in, this coded message.” Sherlock mused.

“You think the note is connected?” John asked. He was rewarded with another of Sherlock’s looks – this one reserved for the dimmest of companions.

“Of course, John. The paper’s the same. Too many odd occurrences!” He said gleefully. “I’m sure the code is meant for me too. Shouldn’t take too long to break it. A series of–”

“It’s a morgue patient reference number.” John said flatly. His brain was starting to spin from all this, and he wanted to get it done as soon as possible.

Sherlock blinked at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve seen Molly use them at Bart’s.” John stood still, waiting for Sherlock to doubt his word, but he just swept past John and headed for the stairs. John followed, part of him still thrilled at the chase. Part that wasn’t wondering what the hell he’d been caught up in.

+++

“That’s an old case, Sherlock.” Molly said hesitantly, looking at the scrap of paper again. John could see her wondering what Sherlock would need with the file.

“Please, Molly.” John asked, throwing her a smile that he hoped could be classed as ‘winning’. She glanced uncertainly at Sherlock, who added his own slightly manic grin.

Molly melted a little at this, hand shaking as she indicted the storeroom, where the paper patient files were stored. “Hasn’t been digitized yet,” she apologised, leaving them to find the right filing cabinet. It didn’t take long – the patient was an old man who had suffered a stroke. John looked through the coroner’s report, and shrugged.

“Looks pretty straightforward.” He offered, standing back so Sherlock could look at it.

After a moment, Sherlock frowned and pointed to the end of the last page. “Look at this John. He was cremated, but he had a memorial plaque at Brompton Cemetery.” They stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock stuffed the papers back into the folder and they bolted from the morgue, breathless as schoolboys as they followed the only clue they had - visiting the patient’s memorial plaque.

+++

“Plaque 62-12,” John muttered, peering at the names. He was working from one end of the long low wall, Sherlock from the other. Finally, he found the plaque bearing the old man’s name. “Over here,” he called to Sherlock. They stood looking at the small piece of metal bearing his details.

“Now what?” John asked. He’d assumed there would be instructions here, or another note perhaps; but it was just a plaque in an obscure corner of the cemetery, deserted but for he and Sherlock. Frustration gnawed at him. This was the only lead they had; if there was no clue here, they were lost. John stumbled a little as Sherlock shouldered him out of the way, bringing out the small crowbar he’d smuggled in. With a grunt he levered up the plaque, revealing the space below it.

“Sherlock!” John admonished him, looking around. There was nobody about, and John turned back to see Sherlock reaching in to pull out a glass vial.

“The key had been hidden in a false space in the fireplace, it was logical to find the same method used here.” Sherlock told him, holding the bottle up to the light. John could see the piece of paper inside, and he didn’t need a closer look to recognise the paper or the writing. Sherlock used one long finger to retrieve the note, holding the curled up piece of paper flat so they could both read it. John’s eyebrows rose, and he was amazed to find that he could, in fact, still be surprised by some element of this bizarre day.

 

_Use your hands to say_

  1. _I’ve seen the Cold East Wind._
  2. _Yes I have the key._
  3. _The Angels must not take the phone box._



 

Again, John read the words with no understanding. He was learning, though, that this was about Sherlock – when was it not? – and so he looked to the detective. A satisfied look was drawing over his face – he obviously understood.

“Coming?” He asked John, who nodded and fell in step. No point asking where they were going, the clues were obviously aimed at the detective, and he would find out soon enough.

+++

They pulled up to the Diogenes Club. Of course, thought John, the silent club where everyone spoke with their hands outside of selected private rooms. Sherlock approached the man at reception. His hands fell into the sign language with a natural grace.

John watched the two men communicate. The receptionist looked puzzled, but at Sherlock’s second response, his hands stuttered. When Sherlock told him, “The Angels must not take the phone box,” the man’s hands dropped for a moment in shock. He beckoned them hesitantly forward, behind the counter and into an unmarked door. Sherlock appeared calm, but John could feel the excitement coming off him in waves. They walked down a long corridor until the man stopped at a metal door. He indicated the single keyhole, and Sherlock brought out the blank key they’d found in the fireplace, fitting it into the keyhole.

It would not turn.

Sherlock frowned, trying again. The receptionist shuffled nervously, and John racked his brain furiously. This was all about Sherlock. Someone knew the places he would have access to, the places he knew well, the people who would help him. The people. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft (sort of). John realised there was only one person not yet on the list, one person who would help Sherlock without question. He stepped forward, pulling his own keys out of his pocket. Sherlock heard the jingle and looked at John before stepping aside. John hesitated, thinking, _Could it really be that simple? Could he be so important to this?_ before finding the only key that he carried that Sherlock did not – that to his gun safe. It turned smoothly, the heavy clunk of the lock giving way to a smooth slide of oiled metal as the door swung open. A light came on automatically as John smiled to himself.

“You need not remain silent in this room.” The receptionist told them quietly. He turned without comment, though John could see him shaking as he made his way back up the corridor. John looked at Sherlock, and they stepped forward, seeing a plain room featuring only a table, two chairs and an envelope. It was eerily like the room they’d seen this morning, John thought. They sat, eyes glued to the envelope once again featuring Sherlock’s name in his own hand. This time, he reached for it with his bare hand, though he moved slowly.

John did not speak as Sherlock began to read in a low voice.

 

_Sherlock,_

_Just a few more tasks and you will understand the truth of the situation. Do as I tell you and all will be revealed in good time. You know by now that I am trustworthy, so extend that trust a little further._

_Go outside into the street. Make sure the Angels can see you._

_Announce the location of the TARDIS – King’s Cross St. Pancras Underground Station, abandoned platform 14._

_Wait until dark, then go there. Find the blue box._

_When they’re close, push the trigger line attached to the door and get inside._

 

**_You need to know this about the Angels. They are not statues. They are creatures from another world, evil creatures. They can’t move while someone’s looking, but they can move, and they will not hesitate to kill you, and worse. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but they're coming. The Angels are coming for you, but listen – your life could depend on this – don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast, faster than you could believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don't blink._ **

_Good luck._

 

The second paragraph was written in a different hand, John could see. He frowned at the words. “Angels? Does he mean the statues that are everywhere?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, his face a study in concentration. He looked at John, all joviality gone. “This sounds serious, John. The other things were a diversion, a puzzle but this,” he indicated the note, “this is far more dangerous.”

John nodded, not understanding the problem.

“You said dangerous, once,” he replied, choosing his words with care. “And here I am.” He held his breath as Sherlock considered his response, then nodded once.

“We’ll have to move fast,” he said, reading the note again before tucking it away. John knew he was committing it to memory. He looked at his watch. “It will be dark soon. Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

John was surprised at this – Sherlock rarely considered a cautious approach. Something in his posture must have told Sherlock as much, because he said without looking at John, “I know people, John. These are not people, and they have the clear advantage in the darkness.” John nodded – he had a point.

With a deep breath, John squared his shoulders and faced Sherlock. “The game is on, Sherlock. Let’s go.” Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before jumping up, flicking the collar up on his collar as he swept past John without another word.

“Pompous git.” John muttered with a grin as the adrenaline began coursing through his veins once again.

+++

They did not have to look for the Angels; stepping outside, several of them were visible from the street. In typically flamboyant fashion, Sherlock had stepped into the middle of the street, arms outstretched and announced in a booming voice, “Come John! We should go to King’s Cross St Pancras Station and retrieve the TARDIS. It’s on platform 14. Let’s go!”

“God, yes.” John replied, sarcasm dripping from each word. They both strode off up the street, and John could see the muscle in Sherlock’s jaw working, the only indication of the tension he obviously felt. As usual, a cab appeared quickly, and they offered the cabbie double fare to hurry. John’s heart was racing far faster than the exertion warranted; the heightened awareness was part and parcel of chasing across London with Sherlock.

 +++

When they arrived at the station, John reached for his oyster card even as Sherlock gracefully leapt over the barrier without a backwards glance. John fumbled his way through, scrambling to catch up with Sherlock’s long strides. There were people around, so John wasn’t worried about the Angels right here; it was more the plan, or lack of, when they made it to the abandoned platform.

“Sherlock,” John said, raising his voice to be heard over the people and noise of the busy station. “Sherlock!”

“What?” Sherlock answered, slowing down a little but refusing to stop.

“What are we doing when we get to the platform?” John asked, cursing once again his shorter legs.

“As the note said, John.” Sherlock sounded impatient. He turned suddenly, taking John by surprise. He had no idea where they were now; he trusted Sherlock to know the right path. He caught up to Sherlock to hear him continue, “We find the blue box, wait for the Angels, pull the trigger line, get inside presumably using the Baker Street key, then lock the door.” He sounded confident, as though the actions were straightforward and safe rather than terrifying and possibly deadly. Without warning, Sherlock stopped by a service door. John took another few steps before backing up to stand by Sherlock.

“This is the shortest way to platform 14, John.” Sherlock looked at him intently. “Mycroft has assured me that all the lights in the station will be on until I call him.”

John was surprised. “You called Mycroft?”

“He owes me a favour.” Sherlock replied dryly.

“Pass me the key.” John whispered, wanting it to be ready when they found the blue box, wherever it was. It was a tiny piece of security, too small to grip for comfort. He looked at Sherlock, nodded once, and they both ducked through the door.

Platform 14 was not long; it ran along the track for maybe 50 meters, before the tunnel continued into the blackness. Sherlock and John stood near one end; the main entrance was at the other. Between the two stood a most unlikely sight; an old fashioned Police Box. A blue box, with a rope attached to the ground in front of the door. John was so taken aback that he forgot for a moment why they were here. Sherlock grabbed his arm and he started, glimpsing a humanoid shape and turning automatically. An Angel, at the main entrance.

“Angel.” He said tensely.

Sherlock replied, “And this end. I’ve got this one, you watch that. Don’t blink, remember.” John nodded, though Sherlock was looking the other way. In accord, they began moving slowly towards the box, the Angels locked in their stone forms as long as they didn’t blink. When John couldn’t hold off any longer and gave into the need, his eyes opened and he gasped. The first Angel was noticeably closer; two others had appeared on the entrance steps, and one in the tunnel. All had wide, snarling mouths and reaching claws. He redoubled his efforts to keep his eyes open as he and Sherlock moved closer to the box. He could see the front stood facing the tracks; they would both be able to keep their Angels in view while he turned the key. Provided he could do that without taking his eyes off the Angels, of course.

“Almost there.” John murmured once he could touch the box. He tried to use his peripheral vision to locate the keyhole; best he could do was see where the door handle was, and a silver spot below. That was probably it. He reached out sideways, feeling with his right hand as his left held the key. By now John’s eyes were streaming tears and he was desperate to blink, but dared not to. The angels moved faster than he’d thought possible and he did not want to give them the opportunity to do whatever it was they would do if they caught him. Odd that he didn’t know what that was exactly, a part of his brain pondered.

“John!” Sherlock whispered urgently, and he fumbled around, finally finding the keyhole with his fingers. The key scraped around against the metal for an agonising second before it slid home, and John felt the key tingle in his grip.

“Where’s the trigger line?” He said urgently.

“I have it.” Sherlock’s reply was immediate, and John blew out a breath.

“On three.” John said, tensing his hand to turn the key. Without warning, the lights flickered, Angels moving closer in the brief darkness. John didn’t stop to think, just shouted, “THREE!”, turned the key and threw himself into the box, trusting Sherlock to do the same. A body flew in after him, kicking the door closed, and John exhaled at the confirmation. Sherlock was alive.

“What happened to ‘Vatican Cameos’?” Sherlock complained, rubbing the elbow he’d smacked on his way in.

“Takes too long to say.” John replied absently, mouth hanging open as he looked around the enormous room. “It’s bigger on the inside!”

He watched Sherlock look up and register the space they now stood in.

“It’s like a spaceship,” John murmured, “from a movie.”

“Time machine, I suspect.” Sherlock corrected him, sounding more in awe of this than John had ever heard him.

They stood for a moment, taking in their surroundings, before Sherlock took out his letter.

“What do we do now?” John asked.

Sherlock read out loud, spinning a wheel on the control panel as he did so.             

 

_Sherlock,_

_This will make sense once you’re in the box. Keep it with you at all times._

_When you get inside, lock the door. Might need to jiggle the lock, it gets sticky._

Sherlock stopped reading and looked at John, who stared back before rolling his eyes and locking the door, finding the lock sticky, as the letter had said. He turned back to Sherlock, arms crossed. Sherlock continued reading the letter.

_Don’t do that, you might break something._

“I think it means the wheel.” John commented, and Sherlock snatched his hand away as though burned. John grinned. This could be fun, he thought.

_Yes, it is._

John chuckled. Could he make…

_No, you can’t._

John blinked. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Sherlock read his thoughts, now a letter was doing the same thing.

_Concentrate on crimson – eleven – delight – petrichor._

“Does it mean me or you?” Sherlock asked. John shrugged – they’d both been addressed so far.

“Better both do it.” He suggested.

“Petrichor is-“ Sherlock started, then stopped when he saw the look on John’s face. “But you know that already.” They both closed their eyes, concentrating.

John thought of arterial blood – a child’s birthday cake – finding his lost favourite jumper – rain on the desert sand.

Sherlock thought of a pirate’s bandana – Shostakovich – solving a worthy puzzle – a summer shower on London streets.

Two pairs of eyes flew open as a new voice sounded. “This is Emergency Program Four Seventeen.” It was a man, transparent and bluish; John could make out a dark suit and hair that looked like he’d been through a hurricane. Sherlock reached out towards the hologram before remembering the next line of the note.

_Don’t put your hand in him, it’s rude._

That’s annoying, I want to know what it feels like, he thought.

_Yes, I know._

“What do we do?” John hissed.

_Answer him honestly. BE POLITE._

“State your name and business.” The hologram requested, eerily addressing the space in between where Sherlock and John stood.

“Err, John Watson and Sherlo-William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” John answered. “We’re, um escaping the Angels?” he knew it sounded like a question, but he hoped it wouldn’t matter.

_It doesn’t._

Nothing happened for a moment, until the column in the middle of the control panel started to pulse and shift, and a strange wheezing sound filled the room.

“What now?” John asked. Sherlock grinned as he reminded John of the last line of the letter.

_Hold on._

John lunged at a railing, barely grabbing on before a huge jolt threw them both sideways. A few smaller bumps and the sound faded, the lighted column dimmed and slowed, and Sherlock and John looked at each other.

“Want to check it out?” Sherlock asked, grinning.

“God yes,” John replied, not a hint of sarcasm noticeable now. Had they really travelled through time? He opened the door hesitantly, only to be knocked over as two people came rushing in, shoving past and slamming the door behind them.

“Thank God, I thought we were going to be stuck there forever.” The redhead exclaimed loudly, throwing herself down on a seat. She was comfortable here, John could see, but didn’t seem particularly interested in either John or Sherlock or what they were doing there.

The other man had righted himself, brushed down his suit and beamed at John. It was the same man as in the hologram, though the suit was brown rather than the blue it had appeared to be. “Hello!” He greeted them. “I’m The Doctor! You must be Sherlock!” he stated, pumping John’s hand enthusiastically. His hair was certainly a statement, John noted absently, before correcting him with a shake of the head and a finger pointing at Sherlock.

“Oh. Sorry.” The Doctor said, whirling around to greet Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes!” he cried. “Big fan, and now even bigger!” he turned to the redhead. “Aren’t we Donna?”

“Yeah, whatever.” She replied, scowling at The Doctor, brushing herself down.

“First proper trip,” he told his guests in an apologetic tone. “She’s not really into the swing of things yet. You two though!” He beamed again, and John wondered if his face was sore at the end of the day. “You’ll have some work to do now, of course, to prepare yourselves to get here, but what a great job! Landed right at our feet! Bellissimo!”

Sherlock looked at the wild man intently, before opening his mouth. John winced – that look usually came before a long and often embarrassing deduction.

“We followed notes left by someone in the past designed for me specifically to find. They lead us across London where we found this TARDIS box, entered and picked you up.” The Doctor nodded.

Sherlock squirmed for a moment, and John rolled his eyes and stepped in. “I’m John Watson. We have no idea what’s going on, and he’s too embarrassed to ask you to explain. If you could though, it’s been a weird day and I’d love to head home for a cuppa.”

The Doctor’s face turned more serious. “Tell me about this weird day. All the details, mind. In nine hundred years of time and space, I’ve never met a detail that’s not important.” He grinned as though at a private joke, then turned to listen to Sherlock’s precise and detailed account of their day. He examined the notes and pocketed the key with thanks, though the notes were returned to Sherlock.

“Right,” he stated when Sherlock was done. He was leaning forward on his knees, listening intently, and now one hand ran through his hair, sucking air in through his teeth. He pointed at Sherlock as he jumped up. “Good thing you’ve such a good memory, my friend, there’s a lot to do to make sure all this works out.” He was pulling levers and peering at screens, black rimmed glasses appearing from somewhere. Glancing up, The Doctor started to explain. “Fascinating race, the Weeping Angels. The only psychopaths in the universe to kill you nicely. No mess, no fuss, they just zap you into the past and let you live to death. The rest of your life used up and blown away in the blink of an eye. You die in the past, and in the present they consume the energy of all the days you might have had. All your stolen moments. They're creatures of the abstract. They live off potential energy.” Sherlock was nodding along, and John copied him, not really following but too overwhelmed to question it.

“The lonely assassins, they used to be called. No one quite knows where they came from, but they're as old as the universe, or very nearly, and they have survived this long because they have the most perfect defence system ever evolved. They are quantum-locked. They don't exist when they're being observed. The moment they are seen by any other living creature, they freeze into rock. No choice. It's a fact of their biology. In the sight of any living thing, they literally turn to stone. And you can't kill a stone. Of course, a stone can't kill you either. But then you turn your head away, then you blink, and oh yes it can.” The Doctor continued, “An angel touched me, sent me back to 1961 without this old girl.” He looked affectionately around at the TARDIS. “I made some friends, then I met a man on the street, and then” he shrugged, “I waited. And here you are, showing up exactly at the right time and place.”

“Um, I don’t understand.” John ventured. A glance at Sherlock showed him The Face again. Sherlock and The Doctor exchanged a glance as The Doctor continued to work at the control panels, leaving Sherlock to explain. “He’s a time traveller who got sent into the past. He set things up so that we could come back and help him.”

John blinked. “I still don’t understand.” _Time travel…_

He tuned into Sherlock’s voice again. “We have to go back now to leave ourselves clues so we can end up here.”

John shook his head and turned to The Doctor, trying for a new angle. “Who was this man who helped you? What could he do from 1961?”

“Ah, but he wasn’t always in 1961,” The Doctor replied cheerfully. He pointed one finger at John. “I follow your blog John, fascinating, by the way, so I knew you trained at St. Bart’s. This friend of mine was a doctor, then later he was a teacher. His father worked in printing, and he made sure that a certain book containing a certain message was printed, and that a certain other doctor knew about it.”

John’s brain was working slowly, but he finally squeaked, “Professor Kingbourne?”

”Yep.” The Doctor popped his ‘p’ just like Sherlock.

“And the other doctor…was me?” John asked, pointing a finger at himself. “All that just so I could see the message…”

The Doctor nodded. “Right, here we are.” He led the way to the door, and they stepped out into…

“Is this Mycroft’s office?” John whispered. It was dark and quiet and he couldn’t remember if he was allowed to talk in here.

“Naturally.” Sherlock replied, stepping over to the desk and sitting down. He pulled a piece of paper towards himself and started writing hurriedly with Mycroft’s fountain pen.

“So we’ve got the original note and envelope,” The Doctor asked, ticking the clues off on his fingers, “The scrap behind the memorial plaque, the key in Baker Street, the second note and envelope downstairs in the secret room.” He scratched his head, thinking. “Is that everything?”

“Diogenes staff need to know about the codes.” Sherlock added, not looking up. “And you’ll need a copy of John’s key to have the lock made.” John passed his keys over, allowing The Doctor to scan it before returning it to his pocket.

“I think that’s everything.” Sherlock said finally, sealing the second envelope. He passed the papers to The Doctor and they trooped back into the TARDIS.

“I’ll pop around and get all this worked out,” The Doctor told them. Sherlock seemed to be taking this is his stride, but John’s brain was still buzzing.

“What was the trigger rope for?” John asked. He couldn’t figure out how The Doctor had stopped the Angels attacking the TARDIS.

“Ah,” The Doctor replied, taking off his glasses and looking decidedly pleased with himself. “Oh, I’ll have to arrange that too.” He shook his head, remembering to answer John’s question. “Triggered a chemiluminescent reaction and revealed my mirrors.” Sherlock nodded approvingly, but John just threw his hands up. “Why do I even ask?” He burst out, frustrated at his companions’ inability to just tell him what was going on.

“He made an incorruptible light source and surrounded the Angels with mirrors. They will always be able to see each other, so they’re trapped.” Sherlock explained patiently.

“Oh. Okay.” John answered. _Obviously_ , the sarcastic voice in his head added.

 

  _in 1961..._

“Doctor? What the hell’s going on?” Donna shrieked.

“Dammit, we got touched by that Angel. Thrown back in time to…(looks at discarded newspaper) 1961. Awww, and I wanted to go see Buddy Holly!” The Doctor lamented.

“Buddy Holly? Who cares about Buddy flippin’ HOLLY? I’m STUCK here in 1961! How am I meant to get home! What about my Grandad?” Donna started, working herself up, until the Doctor cut across her.

“Calm down, calm down! This has happened before, I’ve got a plan.” He frowned. “What year was it when we left?”

“2008.” Donna told him tightly.

He thought for a moment. “Right, in that case...Sherlock Holmes! Oh, brilliant, can’t wait to meet him, he’ll be brilliant.” The Doctor exclaimed, looking like an excited schoolboy.

“What you talking about? Talk some sense, for God’s sake!” Donna burst out.

The Doctor sighed and explained patiently, “This has happened before, Donna. I’ve been touched by one of these Angels before, and it’s a right pain in the behind, figuring out how to get back, or waiting it out.”

“Waiting it out?” she shrieked.

“Hang on, hang on, I made some arrangements.” The Doctor told her, wincing against the shrill sound. “Plans, depending on roughly when I disappeared from, whom I’d contact, what I could do to set them on the path to rescue me. Us! To rescue us!” he added quickly, hoping to avoid another outburst.

“We’ll just need to find a few people, do a few things, then we’ll be off home. It’s like an adventure!” The Doctor said, though Donna looked more murderous than excited.

_Three days later..._

“Won’t be long now.” The Doctor said, leaning comfortably against the stone wall. Donna looked disapprovingly around at the alleyway, the same place they’d arrived three days earlier.

“How do you know we’re going to be rescued?” She asked petulantly.

The Doctor sighed. This was not the first time he’d answered this question. “The TARDIS is programmed to find me and when the emergency protocol is engaged, she will appear in the same place I did, three days later. That gives me time to put the plan into action so someone will find her and pilot her.”

“But how-”

“Donna.” The Doctor answered without opening his eyes. “I’ve been doing this for a very long time. I’m good, very good, or I wouldn’t be here. It’s in the details, and I’m a genius.”

As Donna started processing that, eyes narrowed suspiciously, a wheezing noise sounded and a smile brighter than the sun bursts over The Doctor’s face.

“And here she is now! See, I told you!” he said gleefully. As they moved towards the blue box at the far end of the alleyway, a menacing looking gang of thugs approached.

The Doctor took Donna’s hand, and before she could protest, muttered, “Run!”

They bolted towards the TARDIS, flinging themselves at the doors just as they started to open.

“Thank God, I thought we were going to be stuck there forever.”  Donna said dramatically.

+++

John tuned out as The Doctor and Sherlock talked. The redhead, Donna, had disappeared somewhere. He assumed they could go straight home to Baker Street, but the effort of asking was too much. When they had finally finished their conversation and the door opened to show the living room, he dragged himself up only to collapse into his chair.

“Glad the emergency protocol works. Set that up ages ago.” The Doctor remarked to Sherlock. They shook hands, two brilliant men, John thought drowsily.

“I still have questions…” Sherlock said regretfully.

The Doctor nodded once, looking wary.

“All that stuff we did tonight, writing out the notes, assuring me you’ll hide the key...you must have already done that, or else it wouldn’t be there for me to find.” Sherlock said, with the first note of uncertainty John had ever heard in a sentence about deductive reasoning.

“Yeeeees,” The Doctor said, considering, then added, “and no.” After a brief pause, he chuckled, “Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey, Sherlock.”

 “And what about the mirrors, Doctor?”

“Part of the new security measures. If I shift time periods without the TARDIS, it will relocate to that exact spot so this rescue scenario can play out.”

“The blank key.” Sherlock stated.

“A blind, to encourage John to touch the lock – the TARDIS will open to certain people, if she’s had to move to platform 14. Part of…”

“…the security measures.” Sherlock finished with him. John could hear the amused resignation in Sherlock’s voice. He felt the air shift as The Doctor moved over to stand next to his chair.

“Okay there, Doctor?” The Doctor asked cheekily.

“Sod off, Doctor.” John replied, smiling drowsily when The Doctor rocked back on his heels, pleased.

“See you later, then.” The Doctor farewelled them.

“Or earlier.” Sherlock replied.

The whoosh of the TARDIS filled the room, then faded to nothing.

“How did he know I’d touch the TARDIS?” John murmured.

Sherlock chuckled gently. “How else would you find the keyhole without taking your eyes off the Angels, John?”

“Bet you wish The Doctor could stay instead of _this_ Doctor.” John muttered resentfully, half asleep.

“He may be _The_ Doctor, John, but you are _my_ doctor.” Sherlock replied calmly.

“Brilliant.” John thought as he drifted off. “Sherlock Holmes, I…”

**Author's Note:**

> I am, of course, indebted to the writers of Doctor Who, from whom I shamelessly borrowed sections of text, particularly about the Angels. Lots of quotes here, mainly from Blink, though there are a few others hidden for the Whovians out there.


End file.
